


Oh, The Mistletoe Bough

by abigail89



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89





	Oh, The Mistletoe Bough

**Title** : Oh, the Mistletoe Bough  
 **Fandom** : Star Trek XI  
 **Pairing or Characters** : Jim/Bones  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Word Count** : 1564  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own these characters, even though they own me. No money is being made; no disrespect is intended.  
 **Warnings & Notes**: YAY porn! Just a little. And a really grumpy Bones.

For [](http://between-names.livejournal.com/profile)[**between_names**](http://between-names.livejournal.com/) who requested “Kirk/Bones, mistletoe”. Originally published December 2009 *~* 

McCoy looks up from the PADD he's been writing on in irritation. _Crap. Not another one._

He rises and goes to the open door of his office. As he does he reaches up and snags the almost surreptitiously taped piece of mistletoe from the frame. He pokes his head out to survey his medical bay, but sees only his hard working and professional staff...working.

“Dr. McCoy?”

He looks quickly to the left where the ever efficient Nurse Chapel is re-stocking shelves. “Do you require anything?”

He shakes his head. “An elf to write my quarterly report to Starfleet Medical?”

She snorts, then giggles, and then breaks into a full belly laugh.

“Yeah, thought so,” he says grumpily.

*~*

It's been a hell of an afternoon. Someone blew something up in Engineering that sent most of that crew into medical for treatment for smoke inhalation and minor contusions. Only one lieutenant requires admission, and Dr. M'Benga's monitoring her. To the rest, McCoy and his staff administered oxygen and coritsone for breathing issues and hyposprays of painkillers for scrapes and mild burns and bumps to the head. Then he sent everyone, one by one, to their quarters with admonitions to rest for twenty-four hours, and if he even caught wind of anyone working, he was going to “go fucking medieval on someone's ass”. Sufficiently cowed, the engineers left with murmurs of “Sure thing, doc.”

One of the young ensigns, a Denubian female, leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. McCoy looks startled. “What was that for?”

She points to the light above the bio-bed. “Is it not customary on your Earth to give someone a kiss under the mistletoe?”

McCoy catches himself and gives her a half-smile, opting for cultural sensitivity instead of cranky bastard. “You are correct, Ensign, though I'm not certain when an invasive, parasitic vine became associated with the giving of unauthorized kisses to perfect strangers and medical officers.”

She blushes. “I was trying to pay tribute to your traditions.”

“And you have. Thank you.” He gives her a butterfly kiss on her cheek before applying a hypospray to her long neck. “Now, off to your quarters. Rest your hand, and if it swells any more, get back here, pronto, ok?”

“Yes, Doctor.” She flutters her eyelashes at him as she hops down from the exam.

McCoy reaches up and rather viciously rips the mistletoe from the rim on the light. “People,” he says sternly, “this is supposed to be a medical bay, not a kissing booth. Cease and desist with the mistletoe or I'll have someone's ass in a sling. Got it?”

Sounds of “Yes, Doctor” float around from various places, and one, “Grumpy git” comes from the bed with Mr. Scott, who gives him a beatific smile.

“If I find out this is your doin', don't think I won't hog-tie an officer,” McCoy says, pointing a finger at the Scot.

It only makes Scotty smile wider.

*~*

It's everywhere: In the dining hall. In the communal bathroom on Deck 3. On the bridge. Cargo bay 2. He's dodged kisses from men and women, young and old, Terran and not. Even though he's seen just about every crew member down to their regulation skivvies for physicals, emergencies and whatnot, McCoy believes it doesn't give them the right to just walk up to him and plant a kiss on his person.

It's not that he doesn't like kissing, giving or receiving. He actually likes it just fine. It's just that on a flying bucket in the vacuum of space, recycled air, filtered or not, still teems with germs and bugs and all manner of things that can make one ill. Random people should not just randomly go up and give random kisses. Way too much of a chance to share those bugs, which result in way too much work for him and his staff. It just makes good medical practice to not kiss indiscriminately.

Then there's the whole question of the hygiene of organic matter of unknown provenance. He tosses a handful of the mistletoe into the trash shoot inside dining hall. “You gotta keep this stuff away from where people eat,” he tells the head of dining services. “We don't know where it's from and if it's got bugs and shit hitchin' a ride in it. It's my job is to keep epidemics from starting. This has 'bad idea' written all over it.”

The head gives him a perfunctory nod of agreement, then turns and rolls his eyes at his head chef, who covers up a smile.

*~*

Finally, McCoy returns to his quarters, thinking no one would dare violate the sanctity of his private living space.

Except, clearly, Jim Kirk didn't get the memo that Leonard McCoy hates mistletoe.

He looks with exasperation at the ceiling of their living room; dozens of sprigs of the parasite pepper dark grey tiles, the white berries showing prominently. He sighs and goes to the bedroom.

He does a double-take.

Over the bed is an huge vine with a red ribbon. And lying underneath the mistletoe is a sleeping Jim Kirk. A bare-chested Jim Kirk.

McCoy cannot help but smile. In slumber Jim is angelic; there's a hint of a smile on his lips, and the sparse dark blond chest hairs break up the pale expanse of skin. His face is unlined and free of worry. He is the most beautiful things he's seen, except for his daughter, of course.

He sits beside Jim and touches his cheek with one finger. It causes Jim to stir and his eyes, his sky blue eyes, flutter open. “Bones,” he says sleepily, looking at the chronometer. “God, I'm sorry. I took a shower and was waiting for you to return. Guess I feel asleep.”

“That's all right,” McCoy drawls, running his fingers through Jim's soft hair. “Putting mistletoe up all over the ship has just plain tuckered you out.”

“And I hear you've been running behind me tearing it down,” Jim replies with a twinkle in his eyes. “Bones, how could you?”

“Where'd you get all of it, and by god, you got a lot, didn't you?”

“Colonists on Delta II were growing it. We stopped there last week. Sulu checked it over and said it was the real thing.” Jim sits up. The sheet pools in his lap, revealing that he's not wearing anything underneath.

A coil of desire grows in McCoy's belly as Jim shifts; the thin sheet outlines every curve, angle, and plane of Jim's body. He looks away quickly so he can think. “Did Sulu think to check it for bugs and disease and--”

“Chill, Bones. D'you think I'd bring something contaminated on board my ship?”

That takes him aback. “Of course not.” McCoy has the good grace to look a little sheepish. “You'd never put the ship in danger.”

“Especially not you,” Jim says, taking his hand. “Especially you. Thought you knew me better than that.”

McCoy huffs. “Dammit, Jim,” he says quietly. “Next time just keep it away from my med bay and where food is served, all right?”

“Done.” Jim cups him behind the neck to pull his closer. “Been wanting to do this all day.”

Jim's kiss is hard and demanding. Bones falls against him, opening to him instantly. It's what he's wanted all day too, this kiss, Jim's body pressed to his, his erection springing to life under his palm.

“Bones, c'mere,” Jim growls.

McCoy feels his shirt being lifted up and off. Jim's fingers dig for the button on his trousers, but McCoy stands, unzipping and toeing off boots, then socks. Trousers and boxers follow, all the while Jim watches avidly. “God, you're gorgeous,” Jim whispers.

“You're the gorgeous one,” McCoy says. “Want you.”

McCoy skims his hand under Jim's ass, his fingers rubbing his balls, and finding his hole slick and open to him. “God...Jim.”

Jim reaches under the pillow and retrieves a tube. “Thought of everything.”

In response, McCoy kisses him, possessive and hard. “Love you.”

“Get on with it,” Jim says, canting his hips upwards.

“Hang on. Damn.” Jim hooks a foot around McCoy's waist and tugs him closer. “Hang on.”

Cock finally slicked, he falls forward and presses into Jim's body. He watches as Jim's face slackens, takes on the look of wanton desire and passion, eyes rolling and closing. “It's perfect,” he breathes.

It doesn't take long for completion, first Jim, then McCoy. Both breathe hard afterwards, unwilling to part from their joining. Finally, arms shaking, McCoy rolls to the side, taking Jim in his arms.

“Y'know,” McCoy finally says, idly running his fingers up and down Jim's back, “you don't need to put mistletoe all over the ship, or even over the bed, to get me to kiss you.”

“Yeah, well, it was kinda fun getting the crew to put it up. Good for morale and good will and all that,” Jim laughs quietly. “But I put it all up in here by myself. Feels Christmasy, doesn't it?”

McCoy looks at the mistletoe and ribbon. “Just hope there's no bugs in that.”

*~*


End file.
